


no more idols but me (me and you)

by maharieel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Post-Game, Viscountess Hawke, hair porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 06:04:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10893252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maharieel/pseuds/maharieel
Summary: To rule Kirkwall was to be dragged from life blood-soaked and damned by the Maker, and if that was how she was destined to go, then she would make the devils drag her backwards into the Black City screaming.(or: a short fenris and hawke intimacy study, post-game)





	no more idols but me (me and you)

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt: one character playing with the other's hair

Frances was in the process of lining her eyes with kohl when she caught sight of his shadow slipping through the door. He moved as quiet as air, the soft padding of his feet against the rug barely audible despite the sickening silence that enveloped the room. She traced his movement across the space, eyes following his silhouette against the flickering candlelight until his features came into view. He met her gaze in the mirror, eyes weighed down by a frown.

It was barely dawn; far too early for the likes of her to be awake, let alone grooming herself. And yet there she sat in her satin nightgown, eyes lined black against the paleness of her skin. Frances let her attention slip back to the small brush in her hand even as Fenris moved to stand just behind her dressing stool.

“It’s early,” he said, voice tearing against the silence.

Frances set her tool down before replying. “And?”

“I’m merely surprised,” he said as he scratched at his shoulder. She watched the way his loose nightshirt lifted at the movement. “It’s been a while since I was the one waking up alone.”

She didn’t smile, not like she perhaps should have. Fenris caught the hesitation, caught the way her features teetered and fell away into blank contemplation. His eyes met hers again in the mirror, white hair almost gold in the candle’s reflection.

“Hawke,” he begun, shadows spilling around him as moved closer into the light.

“Please,” she whispered, such a foreign thing for her. _To beg_.

That made him stop. Fenris let his gaze rove over her face and she felt the way his hand reached out to trace lines on her shoulder blade. Through the thin fabric of her gown she could almost feel his skin on hers, the rough electricity behind the contact. They fell into silence for a moment longer, Fenris tracing dents into her skin, before Frances asked, “Can you do my hair?”

Perhaps once he would have recoiled at the notion, but now, after so many years of well-worn intimacy, Fenris simply reached over her shoulder to take her brush up in his hands. She glanced briefly at the tautness of his forearm, at the familiar gleam of white lines against tanned skin, before he disappeared behind her.

Frances lost herself to the scratch of the brush against her scalp and the feel of Fenris’s breath in her hair as he slowly went about her request. She felt herself drift into the haze of sleep on occasion, and he didn’t seem to mind the way she let her eyes slide closed.

It was some time before his voice echoed through the room. “The normal plait?”

“No,” she hummed, the sound reverberating through Fenris’s fingers where they rested against her shoulder. “Orlesian style. From the front.”

His only response was a shallow huff of a laugh, barely a breath.

The sound of the brush clattering against her vanity was followed by the sensation of his fingers weaving between the locks of her hair. Frances made her eyes lift to watch him effortlessly twist her hair through his fingers. Even through the dim candlelight she could see how her hair fell through his fingers like liquid gold, a living, _flowing_ thing that he had learnt to tame and craft some time ago. She knew he never liked to admit it much, but Frances was fully aware of how much he adored her hair, how much he treasured the feel of it twisted in his fisted hand in the dark hours before the sunrise; she knew the look he got when she wore it out for the first time in a long while, a hunger glinting in his eyes as if he wanted to get lost in the sea of auriferous depths that flowed from her scalp.

Fenris caught her gaze in the mirror and let the ghost of a smile curl the corner of his lips, before turning back to the task at hand.

He finished crafting the plait quicker than she would have liked, the absence of his fingers in her hair like a void of longing. Fragments of dawn light had begun to stretch between the gaps in the curtains across the room, leaving tracks of sunlight streaking across the floor in jagged lines.

In two hours, she would be expected at the Keep.

“No matter what happens today,” Fenris said, dragging her from the haze, “I will not go far from you.”

 _As if he could follow her into the depths of the Fade, if it came to that_. She turned from the mirror to meet his gaze properly for the first time since he had slipped into the room. Even in the hazy morning glow, the set to his jaw and creeping darkness under his eyes was still so achingly obvious to her. She would not let him stand between her and whatever fate awaited, no matter the cost.

“Do not go far from me,” she repeated, and perhaps if she had been a holy woman, she would have prayed to the Maker to make it so.

Fenris nodded slightly at the promise that hung between them on a fraying red string. She knew how easily it could be severed, knew how simple it could be for the Templars to burn her thrown to the ground. Aveline knew it, Varric knew it, Fenris knew it. To rule Kirkwall was to be dragged from life blood-soaked and damned by the Maker, and if that was how she was destined to go, then she would make the devils drag her backwards into the Black City _screaming_.

Frances stood slowly, her gown falling to hang just below her knees. She could feel the tightness of her braid, could feel the end of it resting neatly between her shoulder blades. She wondered if Fenris had pulled it tighter than usual, as if that alone could keep her tethered to solid ground.

“I should fetch us some breakfast,” Fenris said as he made to move back towards the door. “You should dress.”

“Yes,” she said, eyes on him. Before he could slip from view, she asked, “Pink or red?”

Fenris paused in the doorway, eyes roving before landing on her face with a certain determined smugness. “Black,” he said, before disappearing into the ether that was the rest of the estate.

With a slight smirk, Frances turned to her armoire and tugged the doors open, eyes immediately landing on the gown she knew he had meant, the dark fabric always dangerously stark against her paleness and golden hair.

Fenris had told her to wear black to face the end of the world, and so she had.


End file.
